


The Price of an Eye

by Joel7th



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon), Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Pairing, Crossover, M/M, spoilers for season 1 of Blood of Zeus, spoilers for season 3 of Castlevania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27433723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joel7th/pseuds/Joel7th
Summary: Seraphim turned Hector’s face so he was once again looking into his eyes, which had unnerved men and several gods. The demon grinned, rubbing the palm of his clawed hand against Hector’s left cheek. Such smooth skin. Such a shame to mar it. “Let them come. You will get to witness what you have bought.”Without warning, he impaled Hector’s left eye with a claw.
Relationships: Hector (Castlevania)/Seraphim (Blood of Zeus)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

That he wanted a night alone to research some spells was what Hector told the narrow-eyed servants when he headed for his chamber, residing in the heart of this complex structure Lenore had had renovated for him. Speaking of Lenore, she had sent a message that she could not come tonight, occupied in a strategy meeting, and that Hector should not miss her too much and should take advantage of the time to rest well and prepare himself because she had something ‘fun’ for him in her next visit. Hector had feigned his perfect smile — had had ample practice for it — and thanked the messenger, not forgetting to ask her to deliver his ‘love’ and longing to Lenore, who was too deep in this pretense she sometimes considered them lovers instead of a mistress and slave. Not Hector though. Hector always remembered their respective roles. Had trained himself to play the part of a lovestruck puppy to appease her while awaiting the chance.

Tonight was the chance.

Hector secured the door behind his back. He was painfully aware that a mere lock could not stall an average vampire for long, so he had not a second to waste. He lit a small candle and placed it on the floor before crouching down and extending his arm under the wardrobe to pull out a small bundle. He unwrapped the cobweb-covered swathe of cloth to reveal a glass shard, glinting in the feeble candlelight.

There was absolutely nothing particular about this shard or the pricey, ornate goblet from which it had come. Just a regular luxury item Lenore had brought to this complex because she would like a sip of wine post-coital. Hector had pretended to be interested in it and then his hand had ‘accidentally’ slipped. Being in a cheerful mood, Lenore had only reprimanded him lightly before ordering a servant to clean it up. He had managed to steal a shard under the servant’s nose and stashed it under the wardrobe. He needed a sharp object for what he was about to do:

A ritual.

One that belonged to an ancient religion long forgotten to the majority of humanity (vampires didn’t do religions, he had learned) but not to the minority of dark arks practitioners like himself. One that required sacrifices because prayers and faith alone could neither reach those ancient deities nor persuade them to grant him a favor.

The god he intended to contact demanded a high sacrifice, for he had been one of three mightiest rulers of the ancient world. They still were, Hector believed; that Forgemasters like Isaac and himself were able to forge night creatures was the strongest proof of their blessing.

The old gods might have been largely turned away by humans but they never faded; they just sat on their gilded thrones, having withdrawn all of their strings from the mortal world. Yet, once in a while, when a human sent a desperate plea to them the _right_ way, they _listened_.

Hector took off his shirt and bit the fabric between his teeth as he began to break his skin and draw blood from his chest. He used the blood to replicate a sacred symbol on the floor. The flame flickered in the closed, windowless chamber.

Hector studied his work for a few seconds, his chest heaving with satisfaction and anticipation in equal measure.

Now came the part where he truly needed the shirt.

Beads of sweat gathered at his temples in spite of the late autumnal chill as Hector dug the shard into his forearm.

Blood and flesh.

The essentials of life, used to call forth death and destruction.

...

Seraphim was in the middle of feeding Chimera when thick wisps of black smoke swirled beside his legs, stretched out on the molten floor and yet unburned. The beast whimpered and lowered himself until he was flushed against the ground, and no amount of chin stroke from Seraphim could encourage him to stand on his four legs. Seraphim only made a half-hearted attempt to suppress his urge to eye-roll and scoff.

Sure enough, the smoke formed an imposing figure towering over Seraphim’s relaxed stance. The demon sighed inwardly.

Hades, Ruler of the Underworld, his full-time master and part-time ambiguous mentor plus father figure (neither of them had admitted it, ever). Had been like that for a few millennia or so. Seraphim had mostly lost track of time here, for the very concept of it was as fluid and ungraspable as the river Styx.

“Get up,” Hades ordered, glancing coldly down at Seraphim’s horned head.

“I have just returned.”

“You will soon depart. A mortal has just invoked me.” A beat. “Not just any mortal but a Forgemaster.”

Seraphim blinked at him, mildly intrigued. He languidly got to his feet, the peak of his tallest horn barely reaching Hades’s shoulder. He gave Chimera a light pat on his mane and tossed the beast the half-eaten leg, which was caught between his jaws before he retreated into his lair, wagging his snake tails all the way there. “A Forgemaster? Aren’t they already extinct?”

“Not extinct, just on the verge of it. Being a rare and dangerous species, they have always been few, and even fewer have been those with the guts to even think about ‘The Price of an Eye’, let alone performing it. The last time I received such a plea, you were a scarred little child fresh out of the jungle.”

The mention of his agonizing past stirred his core; however, like a pebble thrown into lake, all it did was create some ripples before being swallowed up by a vast sense of serenity which had been his state of mind for so long Seraphim was unable to recall when and what had kickstarted it.

Strange that he had found peace and tranquility in the depth of Tartarus whereas pain and suffering were the only things he had known in his relatively short life. In that sense he supposed he was indebted to Heron for the final, thunderous blow.

“Why do few Forgemasters dare to use it when it is such powerful ritual?”

“Good question,” Hades praised, his tone even. “Because aside from sustaining permanent loss of a body part, they also condemn themselves to eternal suffering in Tartarus. Who would be mad enough for that without a grudge as deep and burning as Tartarus itself?”

Now Seraphim was definitely intrigued. Even on his hunt for Acrisius’s sons to avenge Ariana and himself, Seraphim had not considered such an extreme option, which to be fair had not been presented to him.

“Or desperate enough.”

Desperation, on the other hand, was a most powerful driving force. Seraphim had known it firsthand. It was with the prospect of being cornered and butchered hanging above his head that the injured human Seraphim had taken his first bite into a Giant’s flesh.

Hades hummed in agreement. “You will answer his call right now,” he said.

“Now? I have a race with Heron in a few hours.”

“Heron can wait.”

Seraphim huffed. “Then I’ll make quick work whatever that mortal requests.”

“You will not. The ritual dictates that for the price they pay, I will send my most capable general to fulfill their wish and to stay with them until their mortal cord severs.”

A baffled look was plastered on Seraphim’s countenance, which he didn’t bother to mask. “Why must I stay? It could be decades.”

“It could also be days, even hours,” Hades replied. “However, whatever the Fates have in store for them, you are under no circumstances allowed to interfere.”

“Isn’t answering their call already tampering with fate?”

“It is with free will that they have performed the ritual, thus sealing their own fate. Neither you nor I will play a hand in it, even if you will escort them to Tartarus when they breathe their last breath.”

“Hermes is on vacation?”

“The mortal is your responsibility and yours alone. Understood?”

“Understood,” Seraphim said in low voice, nodding. “Can I have a few moments to bid farewell to Mother and Heron?”

“Be quick about it. And take this with you.”

Hades opened his palm and immediately a familiar siren rang in the toxic air. Seraphim’s eyes widened at the sight of the Bident which had just manifested in his hand.

Even when feeling its shape and weight in his grip, Seraphim couldn’t entirely believe it. Over the years he had adapted his fighting skills to a multitude of weapons, divine or demonic, but it was this Bident he had missed the most.

“You are to represent Hades. I cannot tolerate you looking too shabby in front of a mortal.”

...

He was not at all what Seraphim expected to see when the demon stepped out of Hades and into the mortal world.

Truth be told, Seraphim had not had a clear-cut image of the Hades-seeking Forgemaster awaiting him at the bed of the river Styx — had had to swim all its unfathomable depth to the portal when there was neither Hermes nor Hades to walk him through the god-exclusive gate. Perhaps a shriveled thing with only the flame of hatred to keep him going. Whatever his mental image had been, Seraphim certainly had not imagined a half-naked boy, blood and sweats glistening on his chest, on his knees before the pulsating sacred sigil that no doubt had been the means to commune with the King of the Underworld.

What furthered his interest was the uncanny semblance between the boy and Heron. From his scarred, tanned skin, his lean, defined muscles to his sculpted facial features and his striking eyes. Much like Heron’s, they seemed to glow in the dimly lit space like precious gemstones.

Such gorgeous eyes, yet beauty alone was not what made them so captivating but rather the quiet smoldering rage in them. It made the boy alive in a unique way the red in his veins could not.

Seraphim was well acquainted with that rage, which Heron’s eyes had once contained and so had his own. Although his fury had extinguished centuries ago, to witness it simmer in a boy so vulnerable, so _breakable_ was sure to stoke the embers and blaze up his core. He graced the boy with a feral grin, baring his fangs, and watched the boy flinch.

He seemed wary of Seraphim. Good.

This mission had already proven to be fruitful.

“You have called,” Seraphim said, resting the butt if his Bident on the floor with a heavy thunk, “and Hades has deigned to answer. State your wish and it will be granted.”

Hesitation flitted across his face as his right hand pressing what appeared to be a shirt into his left forearm began to tremble, the motion imperceptible but for a demon’s keen eyes. “Death and destruction,” the boy answered with a slight quiver in his voice. His lips were blanched, and it was not clear which was the cause, blood loss or fear.

Death and destruction, right in Seraphim’s expertise. He should expect no less from a human who was willing to trade his soul’s peace for an eternity of suffering.

“Death and destruction you will have when you direct me to your foes.”

“They’re vampires, hundreds years old and having magic.”

Ah, vampires. Seraphim had heard about this peculiar species. Had encountered and eviscerated a few on other missions. Still, he knew little about them, about their belief and culture, even when plenty of them had ended up in Tartarus. He held no particular interest in them, those creatures so convinced by their half-baked immortality and powers that they had defied fate when all they had done was just getting further tangled in the Fates’ web. In a way they reminded Seraphim of himself and his demonic tribe back in the day.

“If you hadn’t had faith in Hades’s powers against those creatures of the night, you wouldn’t have sent your plea his way.”

The boy nodded, his head hung low. “I know the price I have to pay,” he ventured after a short while. “I believe it has to be prepaid. If so, I would like it to be done right now.”

Seraphim smiled, his vertical eye where a scar had run over gleaming in the dark. He cut the distance between them in a few strides, looming over the boy’s kneeling form. “Get up,” he ordered.

The human boy wordlessly obeyed, seemingly used to receiving curt orders.

Standing straight, he was clearly not the short type. However, Seraphim was still a head or so taller, thus the imposing effect had not been lost. With a clawed hand, he caught the boy‘s chin and lifted his face up, forcing him to meet his burning gaze. Up close, his eyes were even more breathtaking, for they brought to his mind the image of the calm Aegean Sea on a sunny day, beneath which the Giants were already stirring from their long slumber. “What’s your name?” Seraphim asked.

“Hector.”

Such a name. Briefly he wondered if the boy’s fate bore any similarities to that of the tragic hero.

“I am Seraphim. You are a brave one, Hector.”

Hector scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ve made a severely flawed judgment. I’m the farthest from ‘brave’. I’m stupid and weak and cowardly. That’s how I ended up here as a slave.”

A slave? Seraphim surveyed his surroundings. What kind of slave bathed in extravagance? Surely not the kind that toiled under the sun till they withered and got tossed in a mass grave.

“Desperate and reckless then?”

“Perhaps. I know what awaits me.”

“And you chose it anyway, so there is at least a speck of bravery in there.”

To Seraphim’s surprise, Hector actually laughed, though his laughter felt rough and dry like sandpaper.

“I’m going to need the shirt lest I scream and alarm every vampire here.”

Seraphim turned Hector’s face so he was once again looking into his eyes, which had unnerved men and several gods. The demon grinned, rubbing the palm of his clawed hand against Hector’s left cheek. Such smooth skin. Such a shame to mar it. “Let them come. You will get to witness what you have bought.”

Without warning, he impaled Hector’s left eye with a claw.

...

Hector did scream.

How could he not? The demon had just pierced his eyeball with a sharp claw and gorged out his eye without so much as a warning. Still, a part of him that wasn’t occupied with the exquisite pain on his face was grateful for Seraphim’s deliberate lack of warning; apprehension only served to enhance fear and intensify the pain that followed. The demon must have known, for Hector surmised that he was an expert torturer in the Underworld. That this small act of mercy actually came from a demon summoned with his flesh and blood was a testament of how fucked up his life had become. From here it would only spiral downwards.

His fate no longer his own.

Seraphim’s firm grip on his bicep kept him upright instead of collapsing on the floor, covering his wound with a shaking hand. He blinked away his forming tear and straining his remaining eye on Seraphim’s outstretched palm. There it laid, his ruined eyeball covered in a film of blood, and with each rapid blink it sank into the demon’s flesh until it was wholly consumed, with a few drops of blood being the proof of its ever existence.

“Payment received,” Seraphim said, his voice grave. To Hector’s bafflement the demon tore the shirt into strips of cloth and began to crudely bandage his injury. His blood took no time to soak the clean fabric.

There was some sort of commotion outside the door before it was kicked down and the servants tasked to keep an eye on Lenore’s prized pet streamed in. They looked confused for a moment, eyes frantically darting around the chamber until they spotted the sigil having charred the floor. The gears started turning in their heads when they finally registered the horned demon in the shadows of the chamber, eyes redder than the blood spilled and brighter than the dying flame of the candle. Danger exuded from his tall, muscular form and condensed what little air left in the crowded space. A few braver ones hissed and bared their fangs while the rest took a surreptitious step back, their shoulders taunt and fists clenching.

Seraphim was still as a statue, his face a handsome, impassive mask, his Bident held firm in his grip. A force to be reckoned with on its own right, it radiated potent energy the like of which Hector had never seen before.

He blinked, and the weapon was gone. A crescent flash. A soft, wet noise like carefully slicing into a peach with a thin, well-whetted blade. Another blink. The weapon was in its wielder’s hand once more as though its blink-and-you-miss-it disappearance was just a temporary visual impairment caused by his remaining eye’s struggle to take on the double workload. The servants looked at each other in bewilderment before their eyes bulged out of their sockets once they realized the horror on each other that they failed to see on themselves. Reality cruelly swept in as their torsos slid from their lower halves with the tiniest movement and landed with squelching thuds, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open, from which strands of blood and saliva ran down their jaws. Blood and innards flooded the stone floor and their stench saturated the air to the point of nauseating, even for a Forgemaster, who was no stranger to bodily fluids and rotten flesh. Awe and reverence warred in his heart when Hector stared at the demon, pristine and pure in spite of the carnage he had brought forth single-handedly. His heartbeats rang so loud in his eardrums they might burst any moment.

“Let us go and finish it before sunrise,” Seraphim said, clawed hand surprisingly gentle on Hector’s bandaged side. “The sun god fancies me no more than he does the vampires.”

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve watched Blood of Zeus and I thoroughly enjoyed it despite its flaws. Before watching, I had expected to like Apollo (everyone likes Apollo) but I ended up falling (hard) for angry boy Seraphim who seemed to have some mental issues and the worst luck possible. Yeah, I have a type, which is boys with mental problems who are bad-luck-magnets. Seraphim is one, Hector’s definitely another. So an idea for a crossover was born. It was also how I hoped Seraphim’s arc to continue in season 2, that angry boy would become Hades’s right-hand man, or demon, and he would find a surprising father figure and mentor in the King of the Underworld.
> 
> The ritual in this fic is wholly fictitious, not based on any real rituals, and used purely for plot device.


	2. Chapter 2

Seraphim knew a handful of things about Forgemasters.

Hah, overstatement of the century.

Scratch that.

Seraphim knew a handful of things about Forgemasters, if he chopped off the hands and counted with the stumps.

Like Hades had said, they were a rare species. So rare that he had only encountered a few of them over the millennia, either being a recluse and hiding their powers or running from bloodthirsty mobs.

Nonetheless, he had found them a formidable race. Any mortal who had struck a deal with Hades to command the crooked beings pulled from the depth of Tartarus deserved at least a modicum of his respect.

Thus, Seraphim had been baffled as to why Hector had not used his god-gifted talent to rain death and destruction upon his foes himself. Vampires by far and large were strong and shrew creatures, but against the sheer force of Hades, they would never stand a chance.

Still, a deal was a deal, and Seraphim would carry it out like any order he received from Hades. Long ago he had learned the hard lesson of when to swallow his pride and bend the knees. Hades, like his siblings, was an arrogant god, perhaps even more so as he was the eldest of the Pantheon, but he was also a fair god, who had deemed it useless to manipulate him with lies and deceits and had thus laid it all out on the table. It had taken a while, with bloodcurdling screams and entrails spilled, coupled with a few limbs lost, but in the end they had reached a sort of compromise. Plus, the benefit package so far had been worthy.

Seraphim had not voiced his query to Hector, and after he accepted the payment, there was no need to, for he had seen through the boy’s eye everything there was to see about his life.

What a life.

Seraphim might look at Hector and think of his half-brother; however, once he had peered into his past, all the demon saw was himself.

A lost child, scarred by his own family and later shunned whenever he cried out for help, his hands coldly swatted away. Alone. Disdained. Hated. Deceived. Manipulated. Used. The only difference was that Seraphim had broken his chains — even if it had cost him his soul in the process — while in order to break his, Hector required strength, one that Seraphim would provide.

Seraphim made quick work of the guards, who had not had a chance to scream when the demon sliced them in half, their armors useless against weapon of the gods. It had felt a tad overkill.

The thick, oaken door, which had likely drowned out any stray noise from the lengthy corridor, yielded with a heavy cry under the twin blades of his Bident and revealed the high-ceilinged meeting chamber of the Styrian sisters.

In an ironic sense these vampire rulers reminded Seraphim of the gods and goddesses of Olympus as they sat in tall-backed chairs with the world laid out before them in the forms of highly detailed maps and figurines. He wondered if they fancied themselves such, manipulating the fates and lives of lesser beings with the tips of their delicate quilts.

If there was one aspect which had not changed with the flux of time, it would be Seraphim’s resentment for the Olympians.

The demon stepped over the wreckage of the door, shielding Hector from the vampires’ sight with his form. All eyes fell on him. Good. He trusted that the dripping blades of his Bident did not escape their scrutiny, nor did the unmistakable scent of iron slip past their enhanced sense. Their eyes, varied in colors, simultaneously turned the same thirsty red. The Amazonian-like one in the quartet clenched her fist, her lips peeled back in a snarl. Her companion, sitting closer to her than the other two, crossed her arms in front of her chest and quietly hissed through her teeth. 

All exquisite women, yet beneath their gorgeous skin lied the ferocious and cunning predators, ready to rip apart their preys without chipping their polished nails.

Seraphim grinned, baring his own fangs. Beasts sizing up beasts.

The petit redhead placed a princess hand on the Amazon’s wrist, holding her questioning gaze for a moment before turning sharply to Seraphim. To the demon’s intrigue, the crimson drained from her irises, returning them to a warm maroon, almost humanlike. It took him the time for her painted lips to form a smile to realize the focus of her attention wasn’t him but rather the mortal boy, who had just stepped out from his shadow to stand by his side.

The lamb stood up to the wolves, his back ramrod-straight and determination lighting up his sole eye. Seraphim almost found it lovely.

“What elaborate joke are you pulling this time, pumpkin?” she asked in a sweet voice, with an even sweeter smile. “Is this your newest creation you want to show us?”

With narrowed eyes she looked Hector up and down and the more she examined him, the more her smile casted off its alluring sweetness. “What have you done, silly boy? Did you try suicide? I’m surprised the ring hadn’t made you wish to kill yourself first, although that would have been a real shame.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, so your ring gave me little trouble,” Hector said, chuckling dryly. “Certainly a loophole, one your magician had perhaps forgotten to inform you.” He turned to Seraphim with unmistakable reverence, surprising the demon. “He isn’t my creation like the rest of the night army, which means he does not bend to my will or yours.”

“Oh? What is he then?”

Hector’s eye bored into her face like he wished to burn a hole through it. “My means to freedom,” he stated, loud and clear. “And vengeance.”

The redhead’s giggles rang like silver bells in the otherwise silent chamber. Her sisters looked at her with a disapproving frown. “Lenore!” the Amazon warned her, exasperated. Lenore stopped at once, her smile morphing into a smirk and her eyes glowing. There was a hint of fang when she spoke. “Your knight in shining armor, isn’t it? Doesn’t look the part, though. You truly believe this bizarre thing can save you?”

“He’s not here to save me. He’s here to grant me freedom, whether I’m dead or alive.”

“Enough of this barking,” snapped the last of the four, a vampire with hair like snow dressed in a flowing gown like blood. “It’s your fault for spoiling this ungrateful dog! If only you had kept your legs closed and left him in the dungeon instead of bringing him into your bed then we wouldn’t have to listen to this nonsense.’”

“Don’t kill him yet, Carmilla. He’s still useful to us.”

“We’ll see about that,” Carmilla said, turning to the stern-looking vampire. “Morana, summon the night creatures!”

Morana leered at Hector, uncrossed her arms and let out a high-pitched whistle. A moment of silence followed, before it was brutally shattered by the smashing of glass. Monsters of various and sizes and shapes crawled in through the broken windows on all sides of the crescent-shaped chamber, their hisses and growls drowning the howling winds. The chandelier dangling from the ceiling was dimmed by the blazing blue in their eyes — both Hector’s signature as a Forgemaster and his control over them. Seraphim found it a shame that such sacred link had been tainted by vampire’s dark arts.

“This is your last chance for forgiveness, Hector. If you get on your knees and beg I will be glad to take you back with the lightest punishment, I promise.”

“It’s your leniency that feeds him the nerve to bite back. We have enough for an army, he’s basically a useless shitsack!”

“My pet, Carmilla,” Lenore said, her voice significantly lower, revealing her full vampiric nature for the first time. “Mine.”

“I’m not yours!” Hector spat, his eye bloodshot and glistening with moisture. “Never yours, even if you put your collar on me. Even if I die today.”

Startlement flashed across Lenore’s doll face and vanished in an instant. Her expression was schooled into that of an icy mask. Her nimble finger, adorned with a twisted band of red and black, shifted. A tap on the oaken surface was all it needed to urge the monsters to move.

Since Hector obstinately refused to back down, Seraphim stepped in front of him, shielding the boy once more. He gently hit the end of the Bident on the floor, mimicking Lenore’s tap. A simple action, a soft, barely audible thunk, yet the result was a gale sweeping over the creatures, freezing them in their ferocious advance. They dropped to the floor at once, hulking forms convulsing as if struck by Zeus’s thunders.

There were worse things than Zeus’s thunders, Seraphim had learned, things like Hades’s frosty tempers. He did not doubt these monsters had already known that.

The vampires’ eyes widened and their faces paled, even the one with gorgeous brown skin Morana. Judging by their looks, this could not be anywhere near their calculations.

“Maul him, you meatsacks,” Carmilla hissed through her teeth.

“They won’t,” Seraphim cut her, shocking her with his capability of speech. “Neither your orders nor the Forgemaster’s take precedence over their true master.”

“Which is....” Lenore trailed off.

“ _Ἀΐδης_.”

Hearing the ancient name spoken in Hector’s voice, which he had grown quite fond of despite the brevity of their acquaintance, brought a small smile to Seraphim’s lips. He spun the Bident in his hand and charged.

...

It was not clear whether she wanted to give him one last caress or rip his face off his skull when Lenore’s hands cupped his cheeks like she had done a hundred times over, fancying herself a blushing maiden in the arms of her lover. He would never get a chance to know because the next second, he came face to face with the tip of Seraphim’s Bident protruding from Lenore’s throat. The demon ruthlessly withdrew his weapon, cleaving her neck cleanly off in the process and spraying her blood on Hector’s skin like hot spring. Lenore’s head, with her eyes wide and her mouth gasping, dropped to the floor while her body collapsed in a bloody heap at his feet. For several moments Hector just stared at her red hair, matted and sheared unevenly. If Lenore could see herself right now, she might have a meltdown, for there was nothing in the world she loved and treasured more than her lustrous locks.

“They’ve fought well.”

Seraphim’s grave voice pulled him out of his trance. Hector’s eye soon found the demon, whose bare skin was littered with gashes. Blood, red and thick as the vampires’, as Hector’s, was oozing from his numerous wounds, some of which seemed to be exposing his _bones_. Even so, he was wearing a nonchalant expression as if these were merely kitten’s scratches.

From this angle, he truly looked like an angel amidst the carnage he had caused.

A _seraph_.

Instead of wings, he had that tattered cape billowing in the winds.

“I don’t usually think highly of the vampire race, but these sisters were formidable opponents,” Seraphim said, licking a nasty cut on the inside of his forearm in an incongruously casual manner. “Against all four of them, I might have had no chance of survival, let alone triumph.”

“You killed them,” Hector stated matter-of-factly, wiping his face of Lenore’s blood.

 _Eviscerated_ , to be more precise. The proof was all over the place.

“They must have never encountered a demon before, much less a dead one that cannot be killed by mortal means.”

“Dead?” Hector echoed, a note of wonder.

It was impossible to tell that Seraphim was already deceased with how vivid he was, standing tall amongst the scattered, blood-soaked limbs. Even the scarlet veins adorning his skin seemed to be alive as they gave off a mesmerizing shimmer.

“For the last millennia or so,” the demon replied, “courtesy of my brother.”

Sibling feud, how classic, and yet Seraphim’s tone was free of resentment.

Now that was a story Hector would like to hear.

“You’ve asked for death and destruction. Now that your enemies are dead, I assume the ‘destruction’ is for this castle.”

“Yes. I want it to be a smoking crater come morning.”

“What about these creatures?”

Hector cast a glance at his creations around the wrecked chamber, having stayed immobile throughout the whole battle. He raised his hand and studied Lenore’s ring. It looked just like a mundane band of twisted black and red threads and now felt like such. The daunting hum of magic reverberating against his skin day and night had perished with Lenore. He pinched it testingly before ripping it from his finger.

Just a band of black and red threads.

From his eye a tear rolled down his cheek, landing on the top of Lenore’s hair. Hector burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

The demon waited for him to calm down with saintly patience.

“I forged these night creatures to be used by the sisters, like myself was used by them. It’s best that they are to be buried with this cursed place.”

“Quite ruthless, aren’t you? You made them after all. Their creator, their _god_.”

“Against my will. I never wished to bring them to this world to be slaves like myself.”

“Fair enough,” the demon concluded. “What about you?”

Hector stared at the demon, dumbfounded. “What about me?”

“Where you want to go, what you want to do now that you’ve regained your freedom and your autonomy.”

“I...” Hector trailed off, frowning. “I thought you were going to take my life and drag me to Tartarus.”

“That was my plan as well,” Seraphim replied with a sharp smirk. “However, Hades made it clear that I will follow you until your life reaches its natural conclusion.” A beat. “And then, Tartarus.”

Hector fidgeted with a loose end of the makeshift bandage on his forearm. “I... don’t know what to do.”

He felt a weight on his shoulder and lifted his head to meet Seraphim’s eyes, which reminded him of Isaac’s creations bearing his signature red. Still, none of those monsters’ eyes contained the scalding heat that seemed to reach deep into Hector’s soul. Instead of recoiling, he was inexplicably drawn to it. Was this how the moth felt when it saw the flame?

“The burden of vengeance,” Seraphim said, his tone softened and reminiscent of a faraway memory. It stirred Hector’s curiosity and made him want to learn more about the demon’s past, if he had ever been human and how he had claimed the title of Hades’s best general. He might have mistaken a few things about the ritual, such as his fate after his wish was fulfilled, but Seraphim’s display of power had not been wrong, as evidence was plastered on the wall and strewn all over the floor to see.

“Yes,” Hector mumbled. He had been so consumed with his burning need for vengeance that once it had died out, he was left cold and empty. Purposeless.

Perhaps there was some truth in Carmilla’s and Lenore’s words to undermine his ability to think for himself, that he was designed to receive orders; without them he would be lost, his very existence plunged into disarray.

“I want to leave this place,” Hector said after a while, his gaze magnetized towards Lenore’s head and her blank, lifeless eyes. A change of scenery would free him of his tormentors’ ghosts and clear up his head.

“Let us get out of here,” Seraphim agreed, “and get you fixed. But I need you to forge a specific beast since none of these creatures were made to carry us for long distances. Can you do that?”

“I suppose I can, there are several bodies here, but you’ll have to show me.”

Hector ended up picking Carmilla’s body, relatively whole as compared to her sisters’, for the catalyst. As power surged to the tips of his fingers, so did a swell of wicked elation in his heart. 

Seraphim’s hand easily enveloped Hector’s even though the Forgemaster never considered himself having a maiden’s hands. The skin felt hard yet smooth and cool, like fine steel, pleasant to the touch. He could get used to it.

It had been so long since he last forged without pressure — every working night had been spent in constant anxiety to make stronger, faster killing machines with either Lenore breathing down his neck or Carmilla threatening to castrate him — that the sheer, pure joy of forging had been lost on him. As a result, he was almost overwhelmed by the exquisite thrill of focusing his energy to reach down to the depth of Tartarus for the soul he desired and pull it all the way to the mortal realm. With Seraphim’s mind acting as the beacon, Hector closed his eyes, drifting along his subconscious stream while reacclimatizing himself with the tingle dancing along his nerves.

It was nothing short of baffling that something so majestic could come out of Carmilla’s remains. Hector hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of beast Seraphim had wanted summoned, so he was in for a pleasant surprise when he witnessed a winged Chimera rise from the ground. It was a unique beast too, for it was his first ever creation to not attempt to maim him right after birth. Seraphim’s influence might have played a part in its peaceful demeanor, and it was quickly proven by the creature’s affection towards the demon. Its powerful wings folded into its muscular body, the Chimera lowered itself, accepting Seraphim’s hand in its thick mane, its tail beating a lazy rhythm on the marble. Low grumbling sounds akin to purring escaped the beast’s open jaws, which brought the first genuine smile to the demon’s handsome face.

He could get used to this, too.

Hector had an inkling that the Chimera, despite bearing his Forgemaster’s mark, would take Seraphim’s command over his own, and he was fine with that, strangely enough. There was a bond between them that was not unlike the one between Cezar and himself, and Hector hated to interfere.

Speaking of Cezar, he wondered what had happened to that pup. Had he already found a new owner who accepted his abnormalities or had he been lurking in Hector’s forge still? Had he... decayed?

Whatever the case, Hector would like to find out.

A purpose, at last.

Seraphim hopped onto the Chimera’s back. There was neither saddle nor rein but it appeared he did not need them given the ease and confidence his posture exuded. His Bident in one hand, the demon extended the other to Hector and effortlessly lifted him on the beast. Hector let out a small, started yelp, immediately feeling Seraphim’s hard chest on his bare back. He was pleasantly cool to Hector’s heated skin, and the Forgemaster could not help a violent shiver, his feet digging into the Chimera’s sides.

He had come to Styria shoeless, and now he was going to leave it in the same way. The irony.

Still, Hector would sooner freeze to death than take another Styrian piece with him.

The fabric was coarse and it could not hold a candle to the luxurious cloths Lenore had loved to dress him in, but to Hector it was more precious than the most expensive silks, for it provided the warmth he painfully needed to fight the Styrian climate, especially once they were out on the open.

“Thank you,” Hector mumbled, “but wouldn’t you be cold?”

He had noticed that there was nothing else on Seraphim’s torso save his tattered cloak, and he had given it to Hector.

“I’m a demon,” Seraphim said, “and dead, so temperatures mean nothing to me. Now, hold on tight.”

Hector had just grasped the beast’s horns when he felt a large hand on his stomach, pressing him flush against the demon’s body.

Hector could not deny the heat on his cheeks, which stayed on even when the beast took into the air and his skin experienced the first bite of the winds.

...

The boy was shivering even though his skin was warm to the touch. Feverish. With the injuries he had sustained, it was expected that he was starting to have a fever.

It could be decades, it could also be days, even hours as Hades had told him. Whatever the case, he was not allowed to meddle with his fate.

Seraphim took off his cape and draped it over Hector’s frame. This was not meddling, he told himself.

The same words repeated when he pressed Hector against his body and kept his hand on the boy’s stomach. It would throw his Chimera off balance if a strong wind was to knock the boy off his back; his mount was not accustomed to carrying two weights after all.

Sure, no meddling.

Twilight was the darkest, or so they said. The good thing was darkness had never posed any problem to Seraphim’s eyes. One might say he saw clearer in the dark than he did under the sun.

How long had he not felt the sun on his skin?

Ah, since he wrecked Apollo’s sparkly ass in a sparring match, in front of Heron and Hades and pretty much the whole Pantheon. The sore loser.

Hector craned his neck to look at the castle below, and Seraphim subconsciously tightened his hold on him. “Thinking about the day I set foot in Tartarus gives me a bone-chilling sensation,” the boy confessed in soft voice, almost a whisper.

“It’s a little too late to start having second thought.”

Hector turned his head and looked into Seraphim’s eyes. His expression was calm. “I knew what I signed up for, where I will end up after I die. It’s just... the thought of seeing _them_ again even in Tartarus scares me more than any tortures it has in store for me.”

“Not necessarily so,” Seraphim replied. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On the one in charge there.”

Hector’s face sported a rare comical look. “Isn’t it Hades who rules over the Underworld?”

“He is. However, he assigned one of his generals for each area, and as long as they do not challenge his authority, they are free to do whatever pleases them in their domain.”

Hector’s eye went wide. “... I didn’t know about that. I wonder who is the unfortunate one having Tartarus as their domain. It’s dreadful enough just to think about that place.”

“It has its perks,” Seraphim said, a tiny smile sneaking to his lips. “Imagine having an uncle who has tried to repeatedly murder you and ruined your life, and now he is in your hand, and you can seek revenge however long you want, in whatever manner you desire.”

Hector stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Are you telling me it’s you who rules over Tartarus?”

Seraphim deemed his smirk was enough an answer.

Leaving Hector to process this newfound information, Seraphim steered his gaze to the vampires’ castle, raising his Bident. It was a work of art, really; it would be a pity to render such fine structure to a smoking crater.

Nevertheless, a deal was a deal.

Glowing ominously, the Bident left his grip, tearing the sky like a bolt of lightning, aiming for the castle.

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seraphim’s deal with Hades in exchange for his service put him in charge of Tartarus and the tortured souls (Acrisius was going to have an endless ‘fun’ time there) and gave Seraphim the freedom to travel to other areas in the Underworld so he could visit Electra and Heron.


End file.
